


Journey to the Past

by VickiTea



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Aged-Up Character(s), Aged-Up Otabek Altin, Aged-Up Yuri Plisetsky, Alternate Universe - Anastasia Fusion, Based on a Musical, Gun Violence, Is this completely original? No, Like most of them are aged up, M/M, Minor Character Death, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Possibly Unrequited Love, Revolution, Royalty, Slow Burn, Song references, Soviet Union, Spoilers, but imma do it anyway
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-23
Updated: 2017-09-29
Packaged: 2018-11-18 00:44:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11280207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VickiTea/pseuds/VickiTea
Summary: A boy with no memory, or name, found in the snow with dreams and flashes of faces and voices he somehow recognizes, is looking for answers. And he only knows one thing for sure; he needs to reach Paris.A boy who grew up on the streets, looking for an escape from poverty and an empty stomach, makes a dangerous, but clever plan.Little did they know, they'd make history.





	1. Prologue: Once Upon a December

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!!
> 
> This is my first YOI fic that I've published, but it was an idea I couldn't get out of my head until I wrote it down. It's also unbeta'd. 
> 
> Basically, this is a crossover with Anastasia, but rather than the magical movie version, I decided to use the Broadway Musical version, which varies greatly. I saw it and couldn't stop thinking of this AU. Naturally, this will contain spoilers for the Musical plot, but if you've heard the songs you kind of know what happens already.
> 
> Every chapter will be named for a song, and if I can find it, I will post a link to the song.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy! Suggestions and constructive criticism welcome.
> 
> Song: "Prologue: Once Upon a December" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VzttbKiL22Q

_Saint Petersburg. 1907._

  
Outside, a cold wind blew and fluttering snowflakes rise and fell with the gusts. It was late in the night and the air was crisp with a Russian winter; chilling to the bone. Royalty and distinguished figures braved their ways through the storm, though only briefly, as they trudged from a palace through deep snow to reach warm carriages, pulled by strong and weather-hardy horses

“Why do you have to go, Grandpa?”

  
Inside, the air was warm, and atmosphere dim, save for candlelight. Inside a spacious bedroom, on a lavish and cushioned bed, sat a boy. He was no more than five years old, with the beginnings of blunt, blond bangs just slightly brushing above his brows. Bright eyes looked up at the figure before him; an older gentleman, dressed in expensive, regal clothing. He had an air of power, but also a softness that the younger boy adored.  

“I’ve stayed too long here, Yuratchka.” The grayed man hummed, looking down fondly at his grandson.

The younger boy was bleary-eyed and stubborn, not wanting his grandfather to go.  
  
“Take me to Paris with you.” He whined, bottom lip quivering.

The older man smiled, almost as warmly as the coals burning in the young boy’s fireplace.

“Wherever I go, you’ll always be with me.” He assured. Slowly, he reached into the pockets of his extravagant overcoat and pulled from it a small music box, etched with a cryllic “P.” The older man reached to the underside of the box, turning the almost unseeable knob and opening the top.  
  
A soft melody played from the box, eliciting a gasp from the blond child.  
  
“Our lullaby.” The old man rumbled, carefully placing it into the younger boy’s open hands. “When you play it, think of an old man who loves you very, very much.”  
  
With that, the old man sang along to the tune, his voice low and raspy, but able to keep the tune well enough.  
  
_“Far away, long ago, glowing dim as an ember, things my heart used to know, things it yearns to remember-”_

The younger’s voice, softer and more sweet, joined now.

 _“-and a song, someone sings, once upon a December.”_  

The little boy, now with tears dribbling down his chubby cheeks, put the music box down and curled up into his grandfather’s chest.  
  
The clicking of heels on marble was audible, as was the sound of doors opening, and it only made the little boy clutch at his grandfather more. In his doorway, stood a younger man with dark hair, and a woman with long, flaxen blonde hair. Both smiled at the sight before them, sadly and fondly.

“Yuri,” The woman cooed. “It’s time to sleep, my son.” She said, taking small strides towards her son’s bed. 

He was petulant, ready to throw a fit on how he wanted to go with his grandpa, but that was cut off before it began, as his grandpa spoke.  
  
“I should be going, Yuratchka.” He said, gently brushing tears from his grandson’s cheeks.  
  
“Grandpa has a long trip.” The other, younger man said, laying a hand on the boy’s grandfather’s--his father’s--shoulder. “Paris is far.”  
  
“Rest now.” The older man said, carefully tucking his grandson in and kissing his forehead.  
  
“I love you, Deda.” He said, the young boy already beginning to nod off beneath the warm blankets.  
  
“I love you too, Yuratchka.”  
  
With those few words, the young prince drifted off into sleep; teary, red eyes shutting for a well deserved rest.  
  
The older man bid his goodbyes to his son and daughter-in-law, before heading for the door. Once outside, he took a last look at the palace, then urged his coachmen on.  
  
That would be the last time, for some time, that the Emperor Nikolai Plisetsky would see his grandson: Prince Yuri Nikolayevich Plisetsky.


	2. A Rumor in St. Petersburg

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so I didn't mean to take so long with this chapter. I was working all summer and then started my Sophomore semester of college. But I suddenly was overcome with inspiration to get my butt in gear and keep up with this story, because I had been so excited to write it.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter. All constructive criticism and comments welcome!
> 
> Song: "A Rumor in St. Petersburg" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=beTUnBtSAf8

_Saint Petersburg. 1927._

“We hear you comrades! The revolution hears you! Together, we will form a new Russia, that will be the envy of all the world. The Czar’s St. Petersburg is now the people’s Leningrad!”

The sounds of a crowd roared through the crackling radio, prompting the barmaid to turn the dial and lower it. Nobody blamed her.  
  
“Leningrad,” Someone huffed, but quietly, afraid of being heard. “They can call it whatever they want,  but it will _always_ be Petersburg.”   
  
Otabek wanted to raise his cup to that, to silently agree. But had the wrong person heard this stranger, Otabek wanted nothing to do with them. One statement wasn’t worth disappearing.   
  
The bar was filled with idle, hushed chatter. People spoke low and quiet, worried one innocent word would incriminate them. Otabek stayed silent, looking into his cup. He wasn’t quite sure what it was, besides alcohol of course. All he knew was that it was strong and cheap enough that he could afford to indulge every so often. It tasted terrible though, so he wasn’t sure exactly how indulgent you could call it.

The chatter continued, with Otabek making out small whispers of conversations.  
  
“-no more bread.”

“Finally a place-”

“He’s not doing very-”

But there was one word that peaked his interest every time he heard it.  
  
“Prince.”   
  
Anyone could draw Otabek’s attention with that one, simple word. It held so many possibilities. He focused on the conversation, which was between a few men and women at a table in the corner.   
  
“Have you heard? Some say a Prince is still alive.” He heard one of the women whisper.   
  
“Yes, I’ve heard that Prince Yuri may have lived. And that his grandfather will pay handsomely anyone who can return his grandson to him in Paris.” One of the men affirmed.

  
Everyone knew this rumor. People would sneak away and whisper it to each other in alleys or through cracked doors. But as simple as it was, it never failed to lodge itself in Otabek’s head. He supposed he wasn’t the only one though, as this small rumor seemed to bring hope to the people of St. Petersburg.

The group flinched as someone walked in the door and immediately quieted down.   
  
“Please, don’t repeat.” The original woman pleaded, her voice full of worry.   
  
Otabek snorted under his breath. “Too late.” He murmured, taking a drink of his unknown alcohol.   
  
“Otabek.”

He looked up, unafraid at the familiar voice. It was his partner after all.  
  
“Yuuri.” He greeted, sliding his cup to the other man as he sat down beside him.   
  
“The closed another border.” Yuuri sighed, taking a long drink from the cup and grimacing slightly. “We should have gotten out of Russia while we still could.” He whispered.   
  
Otabek felt some hope slip away. They were running out of opportunities, and once the borders closed they’d be out of luck for extra income. Nobody needed falsified travel papers if there was nowhere to travel to.   
  
They were getting desperate.   
  
“God, I miss the days of royalty.” Yuuri sighed, pushing his glasses up his nose. “I used to be royalty-”   
  
“Fake royalty.” Otabek laughed quietly.   
  
Yuuri huffed out a laugh as well. “Yeah, yeah. But now _comrade_ , I’m not. And we’re stuck here.”

Otabek nodded grimly. Desperate.  
  
Prince Yuri Plisetsky. Handsome reward. Paris.   
  
“Yuuri, I’ve been thinking-” He glanced around before whispering. “-about the Prince Yuri Plisetsky.”   
  
Yuuri groaned and rolled his eyes. “Not you _too_ , Otabek.”   
  
“Hear me out.” Otabek said, resting his arms on the table. “He might be our ticket out of here.” He prompted. “We’ll find a guy, dress him up, teach him the things he needs to know and take him to Paris.”   
  
Yuuri’s face lit up, and Otabek saw him work it out in his head. “Imagine the reward his grandfather would pay.”   
  
Otabek grinned. “We can pull this off. We’ll go down in history, and give _Leningrad_ something new to talk about.”

The two men shook hands, each taking a swig of the vile alcohol. They were smug, but also trying not to gag at the tase.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_Crack._   
  
Yura dropped to his knees and covered his head with his arms, expecting the feeling of a bullet. But all he felt was a hand of his shoulder.   
  
“It was a truck backfiring comrade, that’s all it was.” He heard a firm voice soothe.   
  
He peaked up, glancing through long, blond strands at a taller man.   
  
“Here, let me help you.” The man reached out and grabbed Yura’s hand, hauling him to his feet. Well, haul wasn’t really the right word. The blond was so light that it was like lifting a feather.   
  
“Thanks.” Yura murmured, dusting himself off and looking up at the stranger

  
He was handsome. Sharp features, cropped, dark hair, and blue eyes against lightly tanned skin. He was clearly not all Russian, his features harboring something distinctly western. Yura couldn’t exactly place where though. And there was another very important feature about him.   
  
He wore the uniform of a Bolshevik general.   
  
Yura immediately felt a lump form in his throat.   
  
“You’ve no need to be afraid anymore. The days of neighbor against neighbor are safe now.” The man assured. His smile turned to a frown though, and Yura realized their hands were still linked. “You’re shaking. There’s a tea shop near here. Let me-”   
  
“Thank you.” Yura spoke louder, pulling his hand back.

 

“What’s your hurry.” The dark haired man questioned, tilting his head in the slightest way.  
  
“I can’t lose this job, they’re not easy to come by.” Yura said, turning to dash off. He turned though, uttering another thank you before heading on his way.   
  
“I’m...here every day.” The general watched at the boy walked off, finding himself enamoured.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“A ruble for this painting! I swear, it’s Plisetsky!”

“A pair of Count Yakov’s pajamas! A great buy!”  
  
The trading markets in Petersburg hadn’t changed much. Items of all kinds for sale or trade for various prices. Alleged Plisetsky memorabilia and items stolen from the palace were the newest addition though, in terms of the markets’ history. But that’s exactly why Yuuri and Otabek were there.   
  
“We need something of his to show the old man.” Otabek murmured, perusing the stalls.   
  
“I found this in a palace. It’s initialed with a ‘Y.’ It could be Yuri Plisetsky’s. What would someone pay for this fine item?”   
  
Otabek whipped around, looking to a stall where a man held a small, rounded music box. It was ornate, and was initialed with a golden ‘Y.’ It had to be Yuri’s.   
  
“Hey,” Otabek walked over to the stall, hands in his pockets and Yuuri at his side. “How much is that music box?” He asked coolly, his breath coming out like a fog in the cold air.   
  
“Ah, the music box is genuine Plisetsky, I couldn’t bear to part with it.” It was laced with implication and a desire for a good price. Otabek knew these tactics. He’d lived on the streets his whole life, and these angles no longer phased him.   
  
“Two cans of beans, comrade?” He said, pulling cans out of his satchel. Food, nowadays, was worth more than bills.   
  
The vendor didn’t even hesitate. “Done.” He practically threw the music box at Otabek, who put down the cans and held the box delicately in his hands.

“Do you believe in fairytales, Yuuri?” Otabek grinned, slinging an arm over Yuuri’s shoulders as they walked off with their prize.

“Once upon a time I did.” Yuuri mused, a far away look in his eyes.

“Good, because we’re going to create a fairytale the whole world will believe.” He hummed, shoving the music box into his bag for safe keeping. “It’s risky, but not much more than usual. We’ll need tickets and papers. And nerves of steel.”   
  
“It’s /way/ more risky than usual, Otabek.” Yuuri huffed, the two of them making their way to the old palace. It was the place they called home. “Hopefully we won’t get shot.” He grumbled.   
  
“Yuuri, we’ll be rich. And we’ll be out.” Otabek said, nudging his friend’s shoulder.   
  
Yuuri nodded, a small smile on his face.   
  
“Who knows if Yuri is dead or alive,” Otabek said. “But that prince is going to be our ticket to freedom.”


End file.
